Chapter 1 #2
Raising both my hands, I try to de-escalate the situation.
“Look, what you’ve said is fuckin’ damning to our club.
We had a potential traitor within our ranks and didn’t even know it.
Might have been different if your prez had given us a heads-up that your Skunk was heading our way.
And the man himself should have been up front and truthful, if he was on the up and up.
” Brushing my fingers through my hair, I act like this is new news, which cuts me to the bone.
“Which all goes to say you’ve given us no reason to trust you.
Fuck, we might not have had problems with you before, but we sure have one now. ”
“You may not, but we’re no friends of the Kings.
Had run-ins with your New Mexico chapter.
” Their spokesperson seems unimpressed by my outburst. “And you’re wrong.
Skunk had his own reasons for leaving us and joining you.
” He’s just contradicting himself. Why would a Mojave Devil, whose club was on the wrong side of the Kings, come south to prospect for the very club that appears to be an enemy of the MDMC?
If the situation wasn’t so serious, it would be comical—both parties knowing the truth of the matter, but neither admitting it, and scrabbling for reasons and excuses to try and make a very wrong situation sound right.
“Look, you tell us where Skunk is, and we’ll find him and move on.”
“You better believe, I’d like to have words with that fuckin’ traitor myself,” I growl.
“But I don’t fuckin’ know where to find him.
” Well, I might have an inkling if I ask Words where he disposed of his ashes.
Though they’ll be spread to the four winds by now, and I doubt his old brothers will be able to find even a trace.
“You got to know something. Where is he?” The bald one yanks Paint up by his wounded arm, and strong as he is, my brother can’t hold back his scream.
“I don’t fuckin’ know,” I yell, exasperation plain in my voice.
“And torturing or threatening to kill us won’t change a fuckin’ thing.
” I wave my hands dismissively. “He’s probably somewhere balls deep in some cunt.
” Slyly, I add, “If he was a plant, he was a man who lied and couldn’t be trusted.
What makes you think a man like that would stay loyal to your club, when he had no problem betraying ours?
” I have to admit I’m grasping at straws here.
“We can fuckin’ trust him!” he roars. “What part of out in good standing don’t you understand? It’s you we don’t trust. How do I know you’re not lying? If you’d found his connection to us, you would have killed him.”
This conversation is ludicrous, each of us knowing the truth, but skirting around it. I know damn sure Griz betrayed us. He’d admitted it out of his own mouth.
“If we found out he was working for you, we’d have come for your club,” Winchester growls. “You wouldn’t have known what had hit you. Nobody fucks with the Kings.”
“And nobody fucks with the MDMC!” The blond-haired man has clearly lost patience. “Show them what we do to Kings, Brothers. Mess ‘em up.”
As they come for us, two of the fuckers kick over Winchester’s and my bikes. I only have time to wince before they’re on me.
I suppose it’s lucky they didn’t just execute us on the spot.
They come at us, fists flying, two of them to our one.
Despite being outnumbered, we try to give as good as we get.
I fight dirty, my foot finding balls and kicking hard.
But Paint’s not up to the job, a fast jab to his already damaged shoulder has him screeching and staying down.
A baseball bat appears from nowhere, meeting Winchester’s already tender head and knocking him clean out.
We’ve got our hits in, a couple of bleeding noses at least. But then the odds change, as their leader comes at me, a nasty-looking knife held in front of him. Two of his brothers somehow manage to get hold of both my arms, and no matter how I struggle, I can’t shake them.
“We want to find Skunk. Your club is dead unless we get him. Consider this as a message to your prez, to show we mean business.”
The knife comes straight for me, sliding into the right side of my chest as easily as a knife through butter. The withdrawal of the blade is almost as painful as it was going in. I crash onto my knees, leaning over, gasping for breath. Then, even while I’m down, they fucking shoot me in the leg.
I’m only vaguely conscious of six bikes appearing out of the trees, firing up and speeding away as severe pain cramps me. I try to breathe, but it feels like I’m drawing in no air. I cough, but it does nothing to help me. Though I try to fight gravity, I fall face-first to the ground.
“Short, stay with me. Stay the fuck with me.”
I hear the words, but can’t get enough oxygen into my lungs to answer.
“Win! Win, fuckin’ come around. Short needs help.
Fuck. Win? Fuck, you’re no help, you asshole.
What do I do?” A pause, a rustling, then, “Oh, shit, damn. Where is he? Come on, Brother, fuckin’ answer.
” Another few seconds go by, then, “Bullseye? Thank fuck you picked up your phone. Mojave Devil’s jumped us.
Short’s been stabbed in the chest and shot in the fuckin’ leg.
Win’s been knocked out. Where the fuck is Saint?
I can’t get hold of him… Yeah, get Genie to track my phone.
Need Doc and a truck… Saint’s with Tempest?
You’ll try him?… Yeah, get him to call me. ”
The words start to drift over my head. I’m hurt bad, I begin to realise. Every intake of breath hurts and doesn’t seem to help. I feel like I’m drowning, my heart’s beating so fast like it’s going to jump out of my chest. Speech? Totally beyond me.
I’m a one-percenter biker, a member of an outlaw club.
My life hasn’t been roses. I’ve killed men, and I’ve robbed.
I certainly haven’t paved my way to heaven.
There will be no angels awaiting my arrival.
It’s the Devil’s work and I’ve done aplenty.
Maybe he will roll out a red carpet in Hell when he realises I’m on my way.
Breathing’s becoming too difficult. All I can see is blackness in front of my eyes. I wonder if that’s the start of the tunnel, and whether there’ll be light beyond it. But my ears tell me I’m still of this world, for the moment.
“Saint–thank fuck Tempest had his Bluetooth on. Short’s been stabbed in the chest. His breathing sounds wheezy, and he’s fuckin’ turning blue. What? Sit him up? Hold on a minute.”
A hand grabs at me. I’m a big man, and even under normal circumstances difficult to move.
But a one-armed man is trying to do his best, and I’m unable to help.
Somehow, after an eternity, during which I wish I could make any sound of protest to get him to stop, I feel myself propped upright against a bike.
“Got him there, Saint. Now what do I do? What do you mean, seal the wound?… Oh, I’ve got a pouch of tobacco, will that work?… Fuck, it was three-quarters full… Empty it? Of fuckin’ course, but he’ll owe me. And tape? What the fuck? Will duct tape do?”
Paint’s hand on me doesn’t really add to the pain I’m feeling. I doubt if anything could increase it, but it’s an odd sensation as his hand pushes something over me, and slicing sounds tell me he’s using his knife to cut tape and smoothing it across whatever he’s holding to my chest.
Then, finally, the pressure to draw in air begins to ease.
It’s at that point that I finally succumb to the darkness taking me over.
With a bizarre sense of relief, I realise this is it. I’m dead.